


Another Life

by mystivy



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:40:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28171053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mystivy/pseuds/mystivy
Summary: Roger is a Professor of English Literature and Rafa Nadal comes to open a Sports Research Centre in his university. Roger has never been a fan of Nadal, the tennis player, but it turns out he might come to like Rafa, the man.
Relationships: Roger Federer/OFC, Roger Federer/Rafael Nadal
Comments: 30
Kudos: 79





	Another Life

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by the juxtaposition of these photos:
> 
>   
> 

There is a kind of rain that soaks through clothes, the kind of rain that falls at rush hour in December, when the pavements are full of people trying to get home from work, jostling umbrellas in the crowd. It’s a kind of rain that soaks into overcoats, bringing out the smell of the wool in them. It slinks around wrists like damp handcuffs, where the edges of sleeves catch in pockets. It makes the cobblestones in the square slippery to walk on, and Roger regrets not taking the underground route, the one under the libraries, the tunnel out of the rain. He regrets having to go to this affair at all. It’s Thursday, and usually on Thursdays he would be in the Library Bar with Shikha and Feargus and whoever else wanted to come, sitting around two tables pushed together near the fire, discussing research. Their fields intersect neatly—postcolonialism, Irish lit, and Roger’s modern literature and literary theory—so it’s good to keep up. Of course, Shikha and Feargus are his best friends, too, so conversation inevitably morphs into university gossip. Who is angling for next Art History Head of School. Who was seen flirting with a senior soph in the Stag’s Head last week. Whose last paper was a snoozefest. The stuff universities run on.

It’s an interesting building, Roger has to admit, as he rounds the corner past the Berkeley Library and the new Sports Research Centre comes into view. Its glass walls glow in the gloom. The grass roof slopes into the cricket pitch, and it’s low, most of its bulk underground, so as not to block the light into the heart of this stretch of campus. It’s a sleek, tasteful design. All of it apart from that awful logo in brushed steel fixed to the front of it, like two looped lightning bolts, that Roger has always thought crass. There is something unrefined about its jagged recollection of a bull’s head. Although, Roger reflects, in his opinion it suits its owner. Roger always considered him jagged, too, back when he was still playing. Bullish. Roger still plays a bit, when the weather is good enough, and he watches any tournaments he can. He appreciates a refined game. Just like he appreciates good literary criticism, woollen overcoats, mahogany desks and leather armchairs. This cashmere scarf that Ellen gave him five Christmases ago. Roger likes elegant things.

The room inside is already full of people. It’s half-lit, probably in an attempt to create atmosphere in the concrete space, and it’s too warm. There’s a Christmas tree in one corner, decorated with multicoloured LEDs and gold baubles. Roger shuffles his way over to where Feargus is standing with Sarah, one of the newly tenured teachers, and shucks off his overcoat to drape it on a chair with his leather satchel. “Thanks,” he says, as Sarah passes him a glass of red. 

“You just made it, boss,” she says, gesturing at Shikha, who’s already hanging around near the podium, as if waiting for a nod to tell her to begin.

“I had some stuff to do,” Roger replies. He’s reviewing three PhD proposals, a paper due for submission next week, and he’s writing the introduction to a collection of short stories by Donna Tartt. “Honestly I’d rather not be here, but, you know.”

“You do the crime, you do the time,” Feargus says, with a wry kind of smile.

“Yeah,” says Roger, a little embarrassed. Feargus had wanted Head of School, too, but Roger had got it. At just thirty-eight years old, the youngest ever, he was told. He takes a sip of wine.

“I think it’s exciting,” says Sarah. Sarah is the type who wears fifties-style clothes, those shoes with low, thick heels, polka-dot dresses and red lipstick. There’s a tall, black-clad PhD student hovering near her that Roger has seen haunting the department at odd hours. Probably the type to park his things in the overnight study room in the library and drink black coffee in the early hours when the Arts Building café opens up. “I love watching him play. Don’t you?”

“Ellen liked him,” Roger says. “We saw him in Queen’s one year, and at Wimbledon.”

“Never on clay?” 

“No. Ellen wanted to go to Monte Carlo. We were actually planning to get tickets, but then, you know.” There’s always that hiccup of silence after he mentions it, even four years later. Like everyone automatically feels they have to allow a moment of respectful silence. “Anyway,” Roger says. “Isn’t he retired?”

“Yeah,” says Sarah. “Three years ago.” The PhD student clears his throat and asks why he retired. Roger doubts he has the first clue about sports. He’s clearly more interested in Sarah, and maybe the free wine. “I guess it was just time,” Sarah says, shrugging. “He won his tenth Roland Garros and called it a day. It was really emotional. He retired right there on court, with the trophy in his hands.” The PhD student nods, as if that means anything to him.

“I remember that,” Roger says. Roger had been rooting for Stan Wawrinka out of a sense of patriotism, but he beat him in straight sets, and then announced his retirement during the trophy ceremony. No one around him seemed to have an idea it was coming. The whole thing was good drama, at least, though Roger can’t say he was particularly moved. He was never much of a fan of his style. Too bullish in his youth, too much of a grinder, and no elegance. His backhand lacked grace—Roger prefers one-handers—and his lasso forehand struck Roger as a little crass. Roger prefers Grigor Dimitrov, if he had to name a current player whose style he really admires. He is classic, elegant, light on his feet. Far more to Roger’s taste.

“Where is he?” Sarah is saying, craning her neck as she scans the crowd. 

“Any guy who retires the way he did will want to make an entrance,” Roger says, though he can’t help looking around a bit himself.

He’s talking to Feargus about the tax breaks that must have made this new centre worth it, when Shikha appears at the podium and a general hush comes over the crowd. As the Vice Provost, she gives a brief preamble and introduces the Provost, who then comes on and gives a ten-minute speech about the breadth of research that can now take place in this “marvellous new building, from medicine to media and more.” Nice alliteration, Roger thinks, catching Feargus’s eye. Feargus is of a similarly cynical mind about this whole enterprise. Roger is finished his wine by the time the Provost wraps it up and introduces the main guest of the evening. And then, all of a sudden, there he is.

Roger has seen Rafael Nadal on court both in real life and on TV, and he has seen him accepting trophies and giving gracious speeches, win or lose, but he’s never seen him like this. He is wearing a blue suit with brown shoes, and a soft-looking jumper on over his shirt, with his suit jacket on over that. Very Mediterranean, Roger thinks. His face is different from how Roger remembers it. Didn’t he always frown on court? And sure, he seemed nice enough during trophy presentations, but did he look like this? This relaxed and pleasant and… Roger searches for the word in his mind. So gentle? He is smiling wide, deep dimples in his cheeks and almost equally deep smile lines around his eyes, and he has some kind of glow about him that is so arresting, Roger misses the beginning of his speech. By the time he tunes in, Nadal has begun to speak about his thinking behind the Sports Studies Centre in a soft Spanish accent. Roger is ready catch Feargus’s eye and share a cynical eyeroll, but Nadal is somehow believable. He seems proud of his work but self-effacing at the same time, and genuine in his respect for research and education. He mentions an academy in Mallorca, and a quick google on Roger’s phone shows up images of a pretty impressive looking campus. Maybe there’s more to this guy than Roger had assumed.

Then, with another search, this time just of his name, come other photos. Some of him on various tennis courts, of course, but others of what looks like an enormous yacht, probably expensive enough to fund multiple Sports Studies Centres. Groups of tanned young men in swimming shorts riding jetskis around the yacht, and bikini-clad women hanging out on deck. Other photos of him at nightclubs in places like Miami and Monte Carlo, wearing expensive-looking white shirts and jeans and shoes with no socks. The Mediterranean playboy look. Well, Roger thinks. _I am large, I contain multitudes_. Presumably as true for this Mediterranean playboy as for Walt Whitman and everyone else. He looks up at the podium again, where Nadal is outlining his vision for research that will be done here, and even though none of it aligns with Roger’s own work, it it’s beginning to seem like an interesting project. Or maybe it’s just the earnestness with which these ideas are being delivered. 

Shikha is moving towards him through the crowd. “Hey,” she whispers, leaning close. “Look, I can’t go to this dinner thing. Do you think you could take my place? They’re taking him to some new restaurant near the Powerscourt where they do all kinds of seafood. He’s wild about seafood, apparently.”

“Why me?” asks Roger, wishing he had a refill of wine. He’ll be able to snag some at the serving table once it’s no longer impolite to move around.

“You want to be Dean of Arts and Humanities, don’t you?” Roger confided in Shikha one night in the Library Bar over one too many whiskeys. He’d meant to keep that particular ambition to himself. “Well, no harm putting in some face time with the Provost, then,” she says, and Roger has to admit she has a point.

“I hate seafood,” he says, grumbling, but Shikha just nudges him with her elbow. 

“I’m sure they’ll do you a nice fish and chips,” she says. “Thanks. I’ll owe you. It’s just something small, there was a bigger fuss over in the Dining Hall earlier.” One more friendly nudge and she spirits off again, back towards the podium to smile benignly at the audience as they applaud Nadal’s speech.

Roger is relieved when the applause dies down and conversation starts up again, and he can head towards the wine table. His thigh is aching where it always aches when he stands for too long, and he needs to move a little. Rub some life back into it. He is doing exactly that beside the serving table, glass in one hand and rubbing his left thigh with the other, when he hears a gentle “thank you” to the wine waitress in Nadal’s unmistakeable accent. “Here, Roger,” says Shikha, who has appeared back beside him. “This is Rafael Nadal. Mr. Nadal, this is Roger Federer, Professor of Modern Lit here at Trinity.”

“Nice to meet you,” says Nadal, holding out his hand.

“A pleasure,” Roger replies, shaking it.

“Wonderful,” says Shikha, looking pleased. “Here, click us.” She holds out her phone and Roger takes a photo of her with Nadal. Nadal looks practiced at it, leaning in, smiling faintly, and then it’s done. Roger hands the phone back to Shikha.

Nadal’s eyes flicker to Roger’s thigh, having seen him rubbing it, and he shares a rueful smile. “Injury?” he asks.

“Long time ago,” Roger replies. “Still gets me sometimes.”

“I know how this feels, no?” Nadal says, as Shikha hands him a glass of white. A mistake, thinks Roger. By now it must be far too warm to be any good. The red would have been better. Nadal sips it with grace, however, his wince at the taste hardly noticeable. He catches Roger’s eye and smiles, a little apologetic that he had winced at all. Then he is swept up in another round of introductions, this time with the science faculty. Roger leaves him to it, winding his way through the little clumps of people until he finds Feargus and Sarah again, the PhD student hovering close behind her. 

“So you talked to him?” she says.

Roger shrugs. “For about twenty seconds,” he says.

“Wow,” Sarah replies. “I loved his talk. He was so interesting, don’t you think?”

“He was,” says Feargus. “Surprisingly. I wasn’t expecting quite so much philosophy from an athlete, even if there was a bit of the ‘give it one hundred percent’ about it.”

“You’ve been converted?” Roger asks. They’ve both been talking about this whole enterprise with a healthy dose of scepticism, thinking of it as a tax write-off for Nadal and a headline for the university, and little more. Now Roger finds he isn’t the only one swayed by the man’s vision.

“Well, he did have some clear ideas,” Feargus says. “I was expecting him to get up there and be pretty vague, maybe talk about the power of positive thinking and all that kind of thing professional athletes seem to believe. But he actually seems to know what kind of research is going to go on here. I’ll reserve judgement, but call me pleasantly surprised.”

“He’s not stupid,” Sarah says. “He’s always been smarter than people have given him credit for. You should read his book. He’s a thinker.”

Feargus laughs. “I don’t think I’ll be going that far,” he says. “Did I hear Shikha ask you to go to dinner?”

“Yeah,” says Roger. “To some fish place near the Powerscourt, apparently.”

“With Shikha?” asks Sarah. 

“No, instead of Shikha.” Roger takes a drink of wine and Sarah’s eyes widen. 

“You mean, with the Provost and the others and _him_?”

“This is why you work hard and get tenure, Sarah,” he pretends to lecture her. “So that someday you can go out to dinner on a rainy night, when honestly you’d rather go home, with a retired professional athlete who seems to spend most of his time these days on a playboy yacht in the Mediterranean. So focus, work hard, and someday you can be like me.”

Sarah shakes her head at him, laughing into her wineglass. “I knew there was a point to it all,” she says, and he winks at her.

Shikha rounds them all up when it’s time to go. Roger retrieves his woolly hat and his scarf from his satchel and pulls them back on again. Nadal has produced a big, puffy coat from somewhere and zipped it up to his chin. He looks less than thrilled to have to walk outside, even though the rain has let up at last. It’s a small group, comprising of Roger, the Provost, a visiting lecturer from Berkeley who studies sports psychology, a couple of representatives of science and medicine, the Head of Spanish, and Nadal. The streets are not too crowded now that it’s only the last of the work commuters hanging around at bus stops, so they make their way quickly enough. The Christmas lights are already up on Grafton Street and Wicklow Street, and Roger can’t help but notice the way Nadal looks up at them with an expression on his face that is somehow endearingly childlike. “They’re up earlier every year, it seems like,” Roger remarks. 

Nadal turns to him and smiles. “I like them,” he says. Then he frowns, a little embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I can’t remember your name.”

“Roger,” says Roger gently. 

Nadal smiles. “Most people call me Rafa.” Roger doesn’t know if he says it because he’s asking him to call him that, or if he genuinely thinks Roger might not know. “Is it long to this restaurant?”

“I don’t think so,” Roger says. “I think it’s just down here, down this street.” They follow the Provost around the corner, where Nadal—Rafa—is momentarily distracted by a chocolate boutique on the corner, before returning his attention to the slightly treacherous footpath, slippy here and there with the remnants of late autumn leaves wet and slick on the paving.

The restaurant is almost full, even on a Wednesday, but the waitress directs them towards a table in the back reserved for their party. Roger has half an idea that he’d like to work it out so that he might sit opposite Rafa, but in the general clamour of removing coats and squeezing in, he ends up at one end while Rafa sits in the middle. Just two seats away. 

Roger has been to dinner with many of the university’s guests over the years. There was Salman Rushdie, who liked to hold forth at the table and have people pay attention to him, especially the younger women. He had a cut-and-thrust approach to conversation, subtly bringing up contentious discussion topics and then going head-to-head with someone. He seemed to particularly enjoy trying to one-up Shikha in front of an audience, though in Roger’s opinion he failed. Then there was Judith Butler, who was unfailingly pleasant and effortlessly brilliant. Roger had gone to the hospital straight after dinner and told Ellen all about her. Gayatri Spivak was baffling, though that was possibly because he was in a corner and could barely hear her, and anyway it had only been six months and he still wasn’t really capable of listening to anyone, no matter how esteemed. About a year later, JK Rowling came to speak to the Popular Literature Masters group, but at dinner afterwards she got into a wrangle with Róisin Clarke, who taught Gender Studies, and Roger waded in on Róisin’s side. The whole situation was so utterly unpleasant that they made a pact never to ask her back again, no matter how much some of the self-styled defenders of “free speech” in the faculty would support it. Then, a couple of weeks ago, André Aciman came to talk about his work, and he was very genial and pleasant, which is why Roger now has a copy of _Call Me By Your Name_ in the front pocket of his satchel.

Rafa, though, is different from all of them. 

It’s obvious he’s practiced at this. He’s used to dinner with strangers, creating a relaxed atmosphere around him with easy smiles. Someone orders sharing platters of seafood and various side dishes, and Rafa seems genuinely happy when the food arrives. “Wow, this is good,” he says, taking some fresh steamed mussels from a pot and slivers of some white fish in creamy sauce that Roger can’t identify.

“As good as Mallorca?” asks Prof. Ibarra, the Head of Spanish. 

Rafa’s face creases around deep dimples when he smiles. “Well,” he says. “Maybe not so good as Mallorca, no?” He looks almost apologetic. “These were catched probably last night, no? On my boat, we eat them straight from the sea. On the grill, a little salt and lemon juice…” He kisses his fingertips, a chef’s kiss. “Perfect.”

“You fish?” asks Roger. 

“Sure,” Rafa says. “On my boat, no? I like to catch dinner when we’re on the sea.”

When Roger imagines fishing boats, he pictures wooden dinghies, with maybe a little cabin, not double-hulled behemoths with hot tubs on the deck. And yet Rafa talks about fishing as the pleasure, the boat as the means to experience it. Roger wants to ask him more about it, but the Provost cuts in with some comment about having been to Porto Cristo once and enjoyed the seafood there, and Rafa seems so genuinely happy to talk about his hometown with someone who has been there, Roger can’t interrupt.

Roger is not eating much, mostly the salad and bread, and a little crab meat and prawns, avoiding most of the fish and the mussels, and the things that look like rubber bladders on little stalks that he wouldn’t eat if they were the last food left on earth. Rafa enjoys it all, though, even the rubber bladders. “You should have one,” he says, holding the dish out to Roger. 

“What do they taste like?”

Rafa seems to think for a minute, searching for the right description. “Like deep ocean.”

“I don’t think I’d like the taste of deep ocean,” Roger says.

“Roger is from Switzerland,” says the provost, over his glasses. “Not a vast amount of seafood there.”

“You don’t like seafood?” Rafa asks. “Then have this. It’s a Spanish kind of rice with azafrán. You’ll like it. Can’t taste the…” He searches for the word. “The escalopes, no? They take the taste of the chorizo.”

“People who like things always say that to people who don’t like things,” Roger says. “That you can’t taste it when you can.”

Rafa laughs. “Sí, this is the true,” he agrees. “Always people say this to me about tomatoes, or about ham. But I promise, scallops take the flavour in, no? They don’t taste much on their own. Try.”

He looks so earnest that Roger can’t refuse. Rafa watches him carefully as he takes a small forkful of rice and scallop. He waits for a moment, through the rich taste of saffron and chorizo, a little onion, waiting for some unpleasant flavour of the sea. “Okay, you were right,” he admits, after a moment. “This is pretty good.”

“I knew it,” Rafa says, his dimpled face catching the light in a way that makes him glow. Roger picks up the bottle of wine and pours a second glass for Rafa, then around the table, and they decide to order a couple more bottles. 

Rafa has no entourage, which he explains when he says his publicist was going to come but had a last-minute family thing. “Tomorrow I visit a tennis club, no? Somewhere in this city, I don’t know where.”

“Fitzwilliam Club?” someone asks. 

“Yes,” says Rafa. “That’s it. Gonna be a nice event, no? They tell me Ireland has no Wimbledon winners since more than one hundred years. Too long.” He shakes his head with a rueful smile.

“Well, with the research centre, maybe we can do something about changing that. Increasing interest, sort of thing,” says the Provost.

“You need to increase not the interest, the money,” Rafa says. “Money first, then interest will come.” Then follows a long discussion between him and the visiting lecture from Berkeley, advising the Provost on how increased success in a sport is usually directly proportional to investment, as if the Provost is in charge of this kind of thing. It’s fascinating, though, and obviously something Rafa is passionate about. He talks at length about his own investment in young players and their success on the tour. As the conversation goes on, Roger recognises one or two names. 

The table is covered in the detritus of dinner. The Provost has settled the bill and there’s an awkward shuffling as everyone pulls on their coats in the small space. Outside, the night has developed a chill, the cold damp rising from the pavements. Most of the others say their goodnights, shaking Rafa’s hand warmly, and drift off, until it’s just Roger and the Provost left with him on the pavement outside the restaurant. Rafa watches his breath in the air and hunches in his puffer jacket.

“Well,” says the Provost. “Do you know your way to the Clarence from here, or…?”

Rafa doesn’t look like he does. “I’ll show him,” Roger offers, without even thinking about it first. “It’s not too far out of my way.”

The Provost nods gratefully. “Right, then. Well, we’ll be in touch. Delighted again to get this started at last.”

“Yes,” says Rafa, shaking the Provost’s hand. “It’s good. I’ll come back soon.”

The Provost says goodnight and turns and waves a few steps down the road.

“Well,” Roger says. “The hotel isn’t that far. Just this way.”

Rafa gives him a look, raising an eyebrow. “You always go to bed so early?” he asks, pushing back the sleeve of his jacket to take a look at his watch. It looks expensive, Roger thinks, while at the same time realising that it’s strange to see someone refer to their watch these days. Roger himself takes out his phone. 

“Ah,” he says. “Only ten o’clock, and you’re Spanish.”

“Yes,” Rafa says. “I am Spanish, and this is my first time in this country, no? Famous for pubs. Show me an Irish pub.” 

“Okay,” Roger says. There’s something disarming about him, impossible to refuse. “You want tourist Irish or real Irish?”

“Real Irish. Come on.” He laughs and rolls his eyes.

“Okay,” Roger says, laughing with him. “This way. I’ll take you to my favourite place.”

The Library Bar is crowded but luck finds them a table near the fire, where a couple stands up to leave just as they’re looking around. Roger goes to the bar and gets the beer Rafa said he’d like and his own whiskey. The burble of conversation around them rises and falls, and it’s warm, and these leather chairs are comfortable. “Cheers,” Roger says, clinking his glass against Rafa’s.

“Salud,” Rafa replies. “This your favourite place?” he says, after a sip. 

Roger nods. “Yeah.” It’s as comfortable as home. The soft furnishings, the deep green walls. Heavy red brocade curtains keeping the damp out. Echoes of a hundred conversations he’s had before sitting just here by the fire, or over there by the window, or even up by the bar, when it’s been really packed. “I’ve come here for, I don’t know, years. We come here and talk about all kinds of shit to do with work.”

“What’s work like? For an academic?”

“Oh, lots of, well, stuff that feels like bullshit, really.” Roger huffs a laugh. He relishes the soft burn of the first sip of his whiskey. “What you want to do is research, you know? Write papers, write books. Teach classes. But then there’s everything else. The endless grading, oh my god. And meetings. I swear, everyone hates them and yet we can’t seem to cut back on them.”

“About what?”

“Boring stuff. Funding, grants, staff hires, PhD candidates. Anything. We can have a meeting about anything. Who’s supposed to buy the tea for the kitchen? Should we get one of those coffee makers that uses pods, or are they too bad for the environment?”

Rafa laughs, his cheeks dimpling. The firelight is catching something in him, something a little entrancing, if Roger is honest. A twinkle in his eye. Some kind of happiness in his soul. “That sounds like a very boring meeting,” he agrees. “But, you know, it’s the same kind of thing in my academy and my foundation. Except we already buyed the coffee machine, no? And we use the reusable pods. Maybe that’s what you should do.”

“Maybe,” Roger says. He feels happiness kindling in his own soul, sitting here talking to Rafa like this. “By the way, have you noticed?” Roger asks him quietly, nodding towards a table near the window. There’s a huddle of people glancing over at them, whispering to each other. “They seem to know who you are.”

“Me?” Rafa says. He leans forward a little. “I think you, no? Is not me they’re looking at.”

The idea is obviously absurd, under the circumstances. “Why would they be looking at me?”

“Because,” Rafa says, with the air of someone explaining something that’s really very obvious. “They don’t look like sports fans, they look like students, no? They have the clothes like students, and they have books. And you’re the handsome professor.” He leans back and takes a sip of his beer. “It’s you they’re looking at, not me.” Case closed. A little shrug and half a flirty smile. It sends something through Roger’s veins that he hasn’t felt in a long time. 

He takes a slow sip of whiskey, the burn in his throat matching the slight heat in his cheeks. “I don’t know about that,” he says, quietly accepting the compliment in his own way.

“Well,” says Rafa. “Is the true. So the injury in your thigh. What kind of injury?”

“Oh, that,” Roger says, rubbing his thigh absently. It’s not sore in the warmth of the room, not when he’s sitting down comfortably and has wine, and now whiskey, in his system. “It was a skiing accident when I was eight. I broke my femur. It was pretty bad, to tell you the truth.”

“Ouch,” says Rafa, wincing in sympathy. “Breaking the femur is tough.”

“Yeah, it was bad. I actually used to play tennis before that. They told me I was pretty good, that I had potential, you know? But with the break, I couldn’t play again. All I could do for months was sit and read books. That’s when I got obsessed with reading. Which is why I’m here, I guess. Teaching literature.”

“You played tournaments before?” 

“Yeah, a few. I loved tennis. And badminton, and soccer, and basketball. But after the injury, for a long time all I could do was watch. I still love watching sports. I’ve seen you at Wimbledon.”

There’s something fleeting on Rafa’s face, something Roger can’t quite place. A glow of the eyes, a pleasure of some kind. “You came to Wimbledon?”

Roger nods. “A couple of times, and once in Queen’s. We wanted to go to Monte Carlo, but we never got to.”

“We?”

“My wife and I. She was a big fan of yours.”

“Ah.” Rafa takes a slow mouthful of beer. His eyes flicker to the ring Roger still wears. “Not anymore? Since I retired, I guess, no reason to be a fan.”

Roger has to think back over what he said to recognise the misunderstanding. “No, no,” he says, leaning forward, his elbows on the table. “No, it’s that she died four years ago. We were planning on going to Monte Carlo, actually, because she wanted to see you play on clay, but with the chemo, there was no way. And then it turned out the chemo was too late, anyway.” There’s something about saying it so baldly to someone who had no idea that’s somehow freeing. It’s a long time since he’s actually had to tell anyone this. Feargus and Shikha got him through the worst of it, after he got back from Basel and his parents, where he stayed for nearly a month after the funeral. Even new staff and students seem to know before they meet him, as if they soak it up through osmosis. As if his loss is a fact of the department, now, maybe of the whole Arts Building. Maybe it’s ground into the cobblestones of Front Square and every new student picks it up through the soles of their shoes.

Rafa looks stricken. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “I didn’t know.” He has that look in his eyes that people get when they accidentally stumble onto the subject of Ellen.

“It’s okay,” Roger says. “Actually, I bet she’s just mad she missed this.” He laughs a little, imagining Ellen looking down on him from somewhere, furious she missed the opportunity to sit down and have a drink with Rafa Nadal. Rafa huffs out a little uncertain laugh. “Seriously,” Roger says. “It’s okay. I’m… I’m okay.” He can’t remember saying that before. Or thinking it, even. “I’m okay.” 

Rafa smiles for real this time. “Okay,” he says. He clinks his bottle to Roger’s glass. “Good.” He takes a mouthful of beer. “What was she like?”

“Oh, she was incredible,” Roger says. Another thing he never gets to talk about, because all his friends knew Ellen. “She taught theoretical physics. She was a genius. She could have been amazing, you know? World class. She’d already published some brilliant papers. She would try to explain things to me that I didn’t even have the brain architecture to understand. You know what I mean?” Rafa nods. “But she could understand everything I discussed with her. Literary theory, books, whatever. She got it all.”

“She sounds really amazing,” Rafa says. He looks so gentle, listening to Roger rave about his wife. It strikes Roger once again how different he is now from how he was on court. A gentle soul in that warrior’s body. He’s still stunningly built, with those biceps obvious under his shirt and that slim but solid waist. Somehow Roger is only noticing now how attractive he is, despite years of seeing him play and appear in ads for Armani or Hilfiger, which Ellen would make a point of showing him when she ran across them online or in the newspaper, teasing him.

“How about you? I think I remember a girlfriend, right? In your box?”

“Ah,” says Rafa. They are interrupted then by a barman manoeuvring around their table to put more peat on the fire. Rafa watches him, waiting for him to leave their orbit before continuing. He leans forward on the table to let the barman pass by and then stays there, almost huddled towards Roger. “You mean Mery, I think. Yes, we told everyone she was my girlfriend. We pretended my whole career.” He’s looking at Roger meaningfully, letting him put two and two together.

“Oh,” Roger says, after a moment. “Oh. You’re…”

“Yeah,” says Rafa. 

“But you didn’t want to say.”

“No.”

“Oh.” Roger takes a slow sip of whiskey, letting the taste spread over his tongue, while Rafa keeps his gaze on him. There’s firelight in his eyes, a warm glow on his face. It’s impossible to look away from him. Distantly, Roger wonders if this is what charisma is. He’s told he has it when he lectures, but if he does, it’s nothing on this scale. Rafa is mesmerising. “That must have sucked.”

Rafa breathes out a laugh, breaking whatever spell had been on Roger for a moment. “Yeah, it sucked.”

“But you’re retired now. Do you still have to be secret?”

Rafa shrugs. He’s nursing his beer, fidgeting a little now with the label, though he doesn’t go so far as to start ripping pieces off, the way Shikha does, leaving little piles of wet paper behind her every time she drinks from a bottle. “I don’t know,” he says. “Feels like if I say it now… well, how do I say it? Sorry, Spain, the world, I lied to you for twenty years.”

“Right,” Roger agrees.

“And kind of embarrassing for Mery. She was good to me a long time, put her life second to helping me. I would feel bad doing that to her.”

“You could always just, you know, be with who you want to be with. Don’t explain. Just be with them and let people think what they want.”

Rafa looks at him keenly. “You think I could do that?”

“Yeah,” says Roger, though it catches in his throat a little.

“Gentlemen,” says the bartender, arriving at their table. “Last orders. Can I get you another round before we close up?”

Roger looks at Rafa, and Rafa looks back at him. “There’s a bar in my hotel,” Rafa says, quietly.

Roger feels the weight of the words. They both know that if he agrees to leave, they’re not going to the bar.

He looks up at the barman. “We’re fine, thanks,” he says. Then, as the barman walks away, he turns back to Rafa and swallows the last drop of whiskey in his glass.

The streets are still busy with Christmas crowds. They pass at least two groups of young guys wearing ugly Christmas jumpers as they weave down George’s Street towards Rafa’s hotel. There are groups of girls in heels and sequined dresses outside bars smoking cigarettes, apparently invulnerable to the cold. Rafa has zipped his puffer jacket up to his neck, and as they walk, Roger can’t help but catch his eye and smile. He can go from smouldering to cute in a way that makes Roger feel a little disoriented, in the best way. “Do you miss the snow in Switzerland?” Rafa asks him, as they wait to cross the road.

“Yeah,” Roger says, with feeling. “I always go home over Christmas to really feel it, you know? Back to my parents and sister. Here it’s just damp and rainy, and if there’s any snow, it’s way too late for Christmas.”

“I’ve never seen snow at Christmas,” Rafa says. “In Mallorca there’s none, no? And before, most years, I was already travelling. Chennai or Abu Dhabi or Doha some years. Maybe already in Brisbane, where it’s summer.”

“That’s just wrong. Sometime you’ll have to come to Switzerland, have a real Christmas.” That’s skated a little too close to something unspoken between them, though, and Rafa just exhales and nods in response. The pedestrian lights change and they cross the street, Rafa leading the way down the cobbled side street towards his hotel. 

The Clarence Hotel has a main entrance and a back entrance, and it’s in the back entrance that Rafa leads him, as if they really were going to the bar. But Rafa passes the entrance to the bar and goes to the elevator. He turns to look at Roger, holding his gaze as he presses the button and the elevator doors slide open. Roger’s heart is thudding in his chest. Rafa touches his arm gently as the elevator ascends, squeezing his hand briefly before they emerge on the top floor. Rafa leads him into the penthouse. 

The view is incredible. Right out across the northern half of the city, the river stretching away to either side, Christmas lights and street lights and the lights of cars twinkling in every direction. Roger stands in the half-dark, lines from Yeats careening through his mind: _had I the heaven’s embroidered cloths, enwrought with gold and silver light, the blue and the dim and the dark cloths of night and light and half-light…_

Rafa has removed his own jacket and now he takes Roger’s coat and satchel and lays them on a chair. Then he takes Roger’s hand in his. 

“I haven’t…” Roger begins. “I mean, it’s been a while. With anyone. Since Ellen, actually.” He feels foolish saying it, as if he’s making too big a deal out of this. 

“I feel like I know you, somehow,” Rafa says. He’s entwining his fingers between Roger’s, frowning a little, as if he’s trying to remember something. “Did we ever meet, when you came to Wimbledon? Or Queen’s?”

Roger shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Never. We weren’t even in the front row or anything.” There’s something breathtaking about being touched like this. Rafa brings his other hand to Roger’s face, running his thumb over the plane of Roger’s cheek, as if he’s trying to place him. “My mother says sometimes you know people from another life.”

Rafa nods slowly. “Maybe that’s it,” he says, so quiet now. “Another life.” He’s lost in contemplation for a moment, and Roger feels like he must be visibly trembling. “I want to kiss you,” Rafa says then. “But I want you to know, if you wanna stop, or if you don’t wanna do anything, that’s okay.” He gazes seriously into Roger’s eyes. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Roger breathes. His mind is scrambling every direction, telling him he wants to do this more than anything, telling him he can’t, that he should run. Then, when Rafa presses his mouth to his own, all the voices, all the crazy, contradictory thoughts, they all shut up, and he fades into nothing but this. 

After Ellen died, Roger couldn’t even look at someone with interest for at least two years. After that, he began vaguely noticing again when people were attractive, but he still felt himself married—he still wore the ring—and so there was no reason to do anything but notice and move on. Recently, though, there have been a couple of occasions when he might have been tempted to go home with someone or take them home to his. This is the first time he’s given in to that temptation.

And give in he does. Rafa is so gentle with him, kissing him softly. Roger feels like he’s being cradled, and savoured. There’s no rush to this. Rafa pulls back a little and breathes a smile against his mouth, then takes his hand and leads him to the couch. He keeps the room in this half-dark, the only light coming from outside, as they settle against each other. “Okay?” Rafa whispers.

“Yeah,” Roger breathes. He does feel okay. He feels better than okay. This time it’s him who finds Rafa’s mouth and kisses him again, keeping it slow but feeling the heat rise. Every sensation, every touch and taste is seared into Roger’s mind. He feels like his body is waking up again after so long dormant. Rafa is kissing his neck and opening the buttons on his shirt, and Roger is overwhelmed for a moment, turned on so fast. “Stop, stop,” he groans, and Rafa does. Rafa looks at him with concern, but Roger shakes his head. “I just need a second to breathe,” he murmurs. Rafa nods mutely, softly kissing Roger’s cheek and stroking one finger slowly down his collarbone. 

“You’re very handsome,” Rafa whispers, as if he’s sharing a secret. He’s got a shyness about him now. A sweetness that makes Roger weak. 

“How did I never see this in you?” he says, holding Rafa’s face in his hands and pushing him back against the arm of the couch. “All those years watching you and I never saw… this.” He has no idea if Rafa knows what he means, but he smiles anyway, bringing Roger with him as he lies back. 

“You think I let many people see me like this?” he says softly, and then Roger has to kiss him again, still overwhelmed but now with something different, something molten and full of desire.

After a while they move to the bed. There’s no reluctance left in Roger now. Rafa holds him between his thighs and Roger marvels, somewhere inside, at being this close to someone again. Mostly, though, his thoughts are taken up with how perfect this man is, how gentle, how expressive. Rafa whispers to him in his ear and kisses him with feeling. His body is so responsive; Roger kisses his nipples and he gasps, he slides his hand between his legs and Rafa moans. He’ll lose himself here. All night, he’ll lose himself.

The winter sun is pale, watery, filtered through the condensation on the windows. They left the curtains open in their rush to bed last night. The bed is warm and Rafa is wrapped around him, sleeping still. His breath is soft and steady against Roger’s shoulder. Roger hasn’t woken up so warm and comfortable in years. The silence stretches out and he feels no urge to move. Perhaps this moment will stretch on forever, allowing him to live here, in Rafa’s strong arms, warm against his body.

Rafa snuffles against him, squeezing him a little, making Roger huff out a breath of air. “Hey,” he whispers. “Don’t break me.” He only knows Rafa has heard him at the sound of his soft giggle against his skin.

“Sorry,” Rafa whispers, pressing a little kiss against him. He pushes right up against Roger’s body, head to toe, letting out a long, happy sigh. “Glad you didn’t leave.”

“I couldn’t have even if I wanted to,” Roger says, squeezing Rafa’s bicep. He leaves his hand there, wrapped around Rafa’s arm which is wrapped around him. 

Rafa noses against his ear, kissing just behind. “Good,” he says. “That’s what I wanted.”

Roger can feel his smile. He squirms around to face him. “Hi,” he whispers.

“Hi,” Rafa replies. Rafa kisses him, entirely unconcerned about his breath or the taste of his mouth. Roger decides not to care either and kisses him back. “Let’s stay in bed today,” Rafa says, when they pull back.

“We can’t,” Roger says. “I have work and you have that thing in the Fitzwilliam Club.”

“Oh yeah,” says Rafa, frowning a little. He’s utterly transparent, his emotions all over his face. “Hey,” he says, the frown clearing. “You should come with me.”

Roger does the calculations in his head. He’d have to go home and change, and then he’d have to take his 11am lecture and go to the 12:30pm meeting, and then he’d have to meet Rafa somewhere again, and he would have to actually do that, make arrangements for a date that was actually some kind of official function for Rafa. “Would that be okay?” he asks, stalling a little because he’s not sure how okay it is with him yet. “I mean, isn’t it work?”

“It’s work,” Rafa agrees. “But just easy work. It’s nice to bring someone I know, not be on my own with strangers again.”

His face is so earnest, but with a little edge of flirtation that Roger finds it impossible to resist. He leans in to kiss him. “I’d have to change, and I have a class and a meeting first.”

“I’ll wait for you,” Rafa says. 

“You’ll wait for me,” Roger echoes. It seems absurd that this beautiful man is saying that to him. Rafa just nods silently, waiting for his answer.

Roger knows there’s a choice to be made. He could back away from this, say no, say that he can’t do it, that he has a paper to prepare for publication and PhD proposals to review. He could promise to keep in touch but then never quite do it, and then be peripherally aware of Rafa Nadal in the world for the rest of his life, thinking of that one perfect night they spent together.

Or he could say yes, and spend the afternoon with him, and probably the evening too, and however long Rafa might want to spend with him. He could see what this is, this thing between them. Maybe it’s just something for a few days, a passing fling, but maybe it’s more. He could find out.

His body is singing and his heart is beating in a way it hasn’t for years. 

He smiles, soft and happy. “Okay.”


End file.
